Dig Your Own Grave
by watchtowerhere
Summary: One last sacrifice, that's what Hal demands. He'll settle for nothing less than everything Cutler can give and he just hopes it's enough.


**FANDOM**: Being Human  
**PAIRINGS**: Hal Yorke/Nick Cutler  
**WARNINGS**: Racist terminology (circa 1950s Britain), misogynistic violence  
**DISCLAIMER**: Copyright of the BBC and Toby Whithouse. Not for profit use.  
**SPOILERS:** 4x07, Making History  
**SUMMARY**: One last sacrifice, that's what Hal demands. He'll settle for nothing less than everything Cutler can give and he just hopes it's enough.  
**NOTES**: First story I've completed in seven years. No beta. Please be gentle. Also, jammy dodgers weren't manufactured until the 1960's, so that's an acknowledged anachronism.

*#*#*

**DIG YOUR OWN GRAVE**

*#*#*

Rachel doesn't get a proper burial.

He digs a shallow grave for her in a small field just outside Waltham Forest, beneath a sycamore tree stripped bare of its leaves as winter approaches. Wrapping her body in tarpaulin, Cutler rolls it over into the shadowy earth below and, with each heap of shovelled dirt, he buries a piece of himself. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Hal watches him closely. He's smoking a cigarette, standing over Cutler as if pronouncing judgment. Waiting for him to crack.

"There now," says Hal once the job is done. "Don't you feel better?"

Cutler doesn't feel anything. He's hungry.

*#*#*

**CHAPTER ONE**

Addiction is like a cancer that eats from within. No matter how much Cutler drinks his thirst is never sated.

The first kill after Rachel is the hardest, when he takes some nameless whore off the street and squeezes the warmth from her, and when it's over Hal holds Cutler to his chest as delirium overtakes him. Every muscle in Cutler's body spasms.

"Sh," Hal croons. "Don't resist it. Death is where you live now. Embrace it."

Embrace _me_.

Cutler holds fast to him, and lets the steady rhythm of Hal's heartbeat anchor him to sanity.

*#*#*

Hal is his only distraction in these early days. The proverbial devil on his shoulder, he whispers such filthy temptation in Cutler's ear: fancy cars, pretty girls, it's all yours for taking. This is Hal's philosophy. But Cutler doesn't have the appetite for it. Blood is the quicksand in which he drowns and there's no escaping its pull. Hal is determined to drag him under, to sever what's left of his humanity, and Cutler clings to his commands and criticisms only because it's easier to do so. They stop him from thinking too much.

He has a role to fulfil and Cutler lets the monotony of it sweep him along. Read this, sign that, whatever it takes to cover up the nasties committed by Hal and his cronies. And he learns to fake it. Smiles when he's supposed to, learns to emulate Hal in all his cruel detachment and lets the blood wash away his guilt. Sweet oblivion.

Hours pass in the study of vampiric law and Cutler is fascinated by the antiquity of it. No formal criteria exist for recruitment into vampire patriarchy, but one thing stands out as clear: it's supposed to offered. Cutler doesn't remember being given a choice and he wonders bitterly if that makes him the exception or Hal - his Lordship certainly wouldn't allow a small matter like the rules to get in his way. By ancient decree, Cutler's life is declared forfeit to his maker and his behaviour is both a reflection upon and subject to Hal's punishment. But it also works in reverse. Hal is responsible for him, too.

Whatever Cutler's feelings, he can't deny the bond that exists between them now. Father and child, murderer and victim. He's both resentful of and drawn to the power this creature exerts over him. Nick Cutler lives as the shadow of Henry "Hal" Yorke, a broken man folded up inside his maker's considerable reputation.

He needs to know more.

So he falls back on his solicitor's training and discreetly snoops around for information. He studies Hal, this strange man who dresses like Al Capone and talks like Shakespeare. Common knowledge paints the picture of an Old One, some four hundred years old and English by birth if his mannered accent is anything to go by. The City of London belongs to him and all vampires who pass within its borders are subject to his authority. Eschewing friendship in favour of subservience, which he achieves by rule of fear, he maintains a certain fondness for a chosen few among his subordinates: Fergus, his boorish second in command; Dennis with his wizard's bears and love of biscuits; Louis the cockney thug who likes to get into fights; and Cutler, his reluctant protégé. Together they form Hal's inner circle and live with him in his handsome Kensington apartments.

Two months after Rachel's death, when Cutler wins a big case involving the murder of a local theatre actress last seen in Hal's company, it's decided that a new wardrobe is in order to reflect his newfound success. Cutler objects, but is overruled. Hal feels like spoiling him and won't be denied this particular pleasure. It's emasculating how easily Cutler gives in. These demands hold a certain comfort in their hollowness.

Perhaps Fergus is right when he calls him a kept boy.

They go to an upmarket tailor's shop in the West End. The owner is a crooked little man in his late fifties, one of the many human employees Hal keeps on the books. Half a dozen suits are tried out and rejected before Hal selects what he believes is the right colour scheme - lots of blue, dark as ink, with a smattering of grey in the palette. As Cutler is measured and fitted, Hal hovers in the background with arms folded loosely to the stomach, leather gloves pressed neatly into his trench-coat pocket.

He's handsome. Cutler can't deny that. Not overly tall, but lithe and solidly built. Deceptively baby-faced, almost sweet in countenance, there's something almost feminine in his absolute dominance. Hal's control over him is passive, covetous; he has no need of physical intimidation to keep Cutler in line. He lets Cutler's fear do the work for him.

The tailor retreats into the back to ring up the order, entombing them together in the fitting room. Hal circles him, eyeing him up and down with an indulgent smile.

He closes in behind and runs his fingertips over Cutler's shoulders, a cold shivering caress.

"There," Hal whispers in his ear. A rush of warm breath, then: "A more fitting skin for you to wear."

*#*#*

An Old One by the name of Edgar Wyndham arrives in January.

He's considerably older than Hal, monstrously pale, and carries himself with the same contained dignity inherent to the Old Ones. As Cutler understands it, Lord Wyndham controls Britain on behalf of his elder brethren and is technically their superior, though he seems strangely deferential in Hal's presence. Cutler can't quite figure out the subtleties at work between them; their body language is impossible to read.

Of course, he really should be used to being surprised.

Hal arranges a welcome party on one of his country estates, elegantly presented beneath a golden marquis. A troupe of human actors stages an elaborate recreation of the story of Adam and Eve, and, afterward, their throats are slit and blood drained down an enormous pyramid of champagne glasses. Such extravagance is unexpected, almost reckless, and Cutler groans at the paperwork that is sure to follow.

At sunset, they walk together through the cherry orchard. Schubert's _Symphony in C major _drifts on the cooling breeze. Pebbles crunch beneath their feet.

"I understand," says Hal. "You've been having a spot of bother with werewolves." He turns to Fergus for clarification. "In Manchester, was it?"

"Indeed, my Lord."

"Such filthy creatures," Wyndham intones. "Jacob has been tracking a pack of dogs for some time now. He cornered them in the Gambia, but lost track of them some time before the New Year. We certainly never expected them to turn up here."

Hal chuckles. "The unfortunate consequence of Empire. Dear Old Blighty, last refuge of the desperate. If they were searching for a better life they must be terribly disappointed. I trust you've made some captures?"

"We've narrowed down a list of possible hiding places," says Wyndham, and Cutler doesn't miss the dodge.

Neither does Hal.

"Hm," he says. His expression is one of amused reproach. Curiouser and curiouser.

Wyndham shrugs. "I'll be sure to send a few to London for your amusement."

"Do you hear that, boys? We might get to stage a little dog fight."

The suggestion is well received. Fergus immediately launches into a debate between the relative merits of the brown haired eastern versus the grey haired western. The former, claims Fergus, wins by superiority of strength, while Dennis insists the latter is more nimble in combat. It doesn't interest Cutler. They're flunkies. He hates them and all their macho posturing. Hates the pretentiousness of this whole proceeding. There's a hole in the patchwork of his equilibrium and only blood can stitch it back together. He wonders how long the celebrations will last before he can slink off to feed.

"Brother," says Hal. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

He almost misses the snap of Hal's fingers. It's only when Fergus turns, eyebrows raised, that Cutler realises he's been summoned. He falls into step beside Hal.

"My protégé," says Hal. "Nick Cutler, I'd like you meet Lord Wyndham. Don't be shy."

Warm hands fall upon Cutler's shoulders and, though the pressure is gentle, they feel unnaturally heavy through his shirt. He's itchy beneath their grasp. Of course, Cutler has noticed by now the enjoyment Hal derives from invading the personal space of others, though he himself doesn't care to be touched. And Hal knows full well that no one has embraced him with such familiarity since Rachel's death. These are murderer's hands. The same ones that held her down and raped her life away. Surrendering to them now is just one more humiliation.

"My Lord," says Cutler. The word tastes like dirt in his mouth.

Wyndham doesn't disdain to look at him. "It's been a long time since you took someone under your wing, Brother. He must be special."

"Indeed, I'm rather protective of him. Such a wilting thing, but there's potential there. I have high expectations for this one."

"And we all know what happens when people fail to meet your exacting standards."

"Well, someone's got to feet the dogs." Hal smiles. It's openly mocking. "He's already proven himself of particular use to our enterprise. Quite the little workhorse. Imaginative, but lacking in practicality."

Horrid to be spoken of in such objectifying terms. Like he's a toy. An irrelevance. Somewhere, deep inside, it shakes free a mote of indignation.

"Well," says Cutler, and he dares to meet Hal's gaze directly. "You wouldn't be happy with me unless you had something to criticise."

He regrets the words immediately. Knows he's crossed a line, and the little germ of rebellion is quashed before it has time to take root - panic sweeping by in its wake. But what he sees on Hal's face isn't a smile, exactly, and Cutler doesn't think he's wrong in reading a little satisfaction there. He just can't figure the man out.

"Indeed," says Hal, squeezing his shoulder. "My little history maker."

*#*#*

They start having breakfast together. More precisely, Hal orders Cutler to join him one morning in the upstairs dining room and with great flourish presents a bacon sandwich on brown bread with the crusts sliced off. A glass of fresh orange juice, too.

"Your favourite," says Hal, and he's smiling like the food is secretly poisoned.

"How did you - ?" Cutler doesn't finish the sentence. Of course Hal knows.

His Lordship follows a very specific routine in the morning, drinks his coffee black but doesn't eat, peruses the newspaper until the clock strikes seven-thirty. The silence leans towards uncomfortable and Cutler barely manages to choke down his breakfast. It's nothing compared to the blood. Dirt and rot in his mouth. But the normalcy of it is comforting and he pats his mouth with a cotton serviette when he's done.

"You'll join me again tomorrow," Hal informs him. Not a request.

If this is a test, Cutler thinks he's passed.

From then on, his presence becomes a new fixture in Hal's routine and Cutler is content to go along with it. Every choice Hal takes away from him makes living a little easier.

*#*#*

He still wears his wedding ring. He's not sure why. He twists it around his finger and questions what it means to him now. Just a piece of metal, but it's like a valve holding back the flood of his emotions - Cutler feels the pressure bearing down on him, though he's far enough removed that he can choose to ignore it. No going back.

Still. Some times he wonders.

Three months pass before Hal brings it up.

On Christmas Eve, they raid a small terraced house in Hackney and make slow supper of its occupants. Hal focuses on the wife - he has a thing about women - and takes his sweet time coaxing her to pleasure before tearing her throat out. By the time he's finished, the little mare has learned to enjoy the delicacy of his torments. The husband he leaves to Cutler with a warning to stifle any screams. Afterwards, they sit at the kitchen table nestled around the hearth and kick their shoes and socks off. It's almost cosy. The young newlyweds lay nearby on the carpet, staring vacantly at whatever heaven or hell awaits them. Cutler can still taste their blood, like the warm afterglow of ginger in his mouth.

"Such vulgar decor," Hal notes absently, taking in their surroundings. He warms his feet near the open fire. Such lovely toes. "You know, for some people this is the extent of their earthly ambition. Content to live and die in the same four walls. I can almost smell the mediocrity. So proud of this little box they call a home. Dreams of family life together. The husband works while the wife stays at home and suckles their parasitic offspring. It's absurd. Were you planning on having children, Mister Cutler?"

"What does it matter?" Cutler mutters. _Twist the knife, why don't you_? "No."

"So testy," says Hal, clicking his tongue. "I suppose it's just as well. You seem like the lenient sort where children are concerned. Bad form, that. Spare the rod spoil the child."

"Did you have any? I mean, when you were - ?"

"When I was what?"

Something in the way Hal says it tells Cutler to back off. He should've known it wouldn't be that easy. "Never mind."

"It really is an unforgivable lack of imagination," says Hal, and he's talking about the newlyweds again. "Perhaps we should have a drink to mourn the loss of dreams unfulfilled."

"I don't think there's any alcohol," says Cutler with a frown.

"Then make me a fucking cup of tea," replies Hal, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

A snap of his fingers sends Cutler scurrying to the stovetop kettle. He returns a few minutes later with two cups of Darjeeling - black with a splash of water, just the way his Lordship likes it - and after a moment's hesitation he brings the little biscuit tin as well. It's old and dented with loving memories, tartan imprint fading into the metal. Cutler's hand trembles as he offers it to Hal. He's not sure why. The blood isn't supposed to make him feel this weak.

Hal raises his cup and saucer. "A toast: to their liberation!"

Figures he'd see it that way. Hal thinks he's done them a favour.

_And me, too? _Cutler wonders. _Is that how you see it? _Bitterness. He shakes clear the memories, watches from the corner of his vision as Hal dunks a biscuit in his teacup. So human, that gesture. The wolf in sheep's clothing. Murderer. Parasite. Some times, Cutler can't stand to be around him. Wants to be nearer still. Unbearable conflict.

The newlyweds have already begun the process of decomposition; the stench of excrement fills the room. Hal seems oblivious. Perhaps he's used to it.

"You didn't have to kill her, you know," says Cutler absently.

"Hm?" Hal's face wrinkles with irritation. "What are you talking about? I gave you the husband, didn't I? What more do you want?"

Cutler doesn't answer. He stares at the wife's body. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. He's twisting the ring on his finger again. Doesn't even realise he's doing it until it's too late.

"Oh," says Hal. "_Oh_." Spark of amusement. "I see. So we're back to that again? Then in answer to your question, perhaps not. But it was good for a laugh. Jammy Dodger?"

Cutler stares blankly at the biscuit. Hal wafts it beneath his nose and it's more than he stand. He shakes his head.

"I want to hate you so much," he says, and it leaves him as a resigned sigh.

"But you can't." Hal nods, contemplative, and decides to eat the biscuit himself. Chews carefully before continuing. "Why is that, do you think?"

"What are you," Cutler spits. "My confessor?"

"If you like."

So courteous. A little too accommodating. Dangerous ground shifting beneath Cutler's feet. He knows firsthand what Hal is capable of.

"I don't want to talk about it," he mutters, and turns his back on the newlyweds. He imagines they're staring at him.

"You were the one who brought it up. _Again_. Why do you still wear that fucking thing?"

"What?"

For a moment, Cutler loses track of the conversation. But of course. Hal is talking about the wedding ring. It glows majestically in the firelight as Cutler makes a show of separating his hands.

"All that glisters is not golden," says Hal. He reaches across the table, snakes his fingers loosely around Cutler's wrist and tugs his hand free. It's entirely too good to be touched like this. Lover's hands, soft and gentle. More confident than the way she used to touch him. Don't think about it. Hal examines the ring up close with a faintly puzzled expression. "How old are you, Mister Cutler? Twenty-six? When I was your age, I learned a vital lesson. Fear is a choice. You can master it or you can be its slave; but to control it is know true freedom. Nothing can touch you."

Cutler can't even look at him. Keeps his gaze on Hal's collar.

"Are you afraid of anything?" he wonders.

Something in Hal's pause betrays him. He steeples his fingers and stares into the open fire. Shadows pool beneath his eyes. He continues:

"Do you know why we have children? It's the fear that'll do it. We see the years piling up before us like so much weight on our chests and suffocate beneath the enormity of it. We ask ourselves: what's the point of it all? Why am I here? What reason do I have to wake up in the morning? This fear is a plague visited upon every creature in the world. Dare we accept the malignant truth - that it's all for nothing? Of course we don't. We lie to ourselves because it's easier. And we find distractions, things to hold the fear in check: love, greed, ambition, they simply obscure how meaningless it all is."

That's more words than Hal has spoken to him since the night Cutler died. He's almost afraid to move, as if a single breath could shatter the fragility of the moment.

"But the worst lie," says Hal, " ... is what we pass on, from parent to child, generation to generation. That the cycle can be broken. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel, we tell ourselves. Fear compels us to search for it, even when deep down we know we're already lost. Life is whatever you make of it, but don't pretend it has any deeper meaning. None of it matters, Mister Cutler. Do as you please - and don't waste tears on regret."

It's probably the kindest thing Hal has said to him, and that's exactly why it's so cruel.

"But that can't be it," says Cutler, shaking his head. The concept fills him with despair. "There has to be more than that or what's the fucking point of all this? Why did you choose me, Hal? Tell me that much. Were you bored? Am I one of fucking distractions? Is that how it works? I'm not stupid enough to believe I'm special."

"So modest," Hal drawls. He releases Cutler's hand.

"Why did you make me?"

"Why does it matter to you so much?" Hal counters. Blood from a stone.

"Do you always answer a question with a question?"

"Just trying to stay ahead of that tricky legalese of yours. Lawyers are such slippery things, or so I've heard."

"I'm a solicitor," Cutler points out. He's not letting go of this now that he's got Hal talking. Fuck the man and all his smugness. "The Old Ones don't recruit new vampires."

"And who told you that?"

"Word gets around. Dennis might've mentioned it."

"I'll have his tongue ripped out."

Cutler leans forward and pleads with everything he's got: "_Why_?"

Hal looks at him for the longest time. "Don't you get it?" he says, and raises his teacup in another toast. Inclines his head every so politely. "Why not?"

Impossible to absorb the emptiness of that statement. Why not_. _For a moment, Cutler gives serious thought to taking the teaspoon from his cup and burying it in Hal's face. _Yes, want to hate you. For this. For everything_. But Hal's right. He can't - and Cutler knows why, even though he can't bring himself to accept it.

This is all he's got left now.

"Fear is a choice," Cutler repeats, tasting the words.

Hal smiles. It's not unkind. "Why do you still wear the ring?"

"I don't know," says Cutler, and the words defeat him. The truth is always emptier than the lie. Hal has won again. "It's a distraction."

Hal's smile widens in self-satisfaction.

"And when you're ready to open your eyes and accept the truth... " He places his teacup gently on its saucer -_ clink _- and backhands Cutler across the face. It's mortifying more than painful. So casually done, like disciplining a recalcitrant child. " ... I'll throw a fucking parade in your honour."

They don't leave until the biscuit tin is empty.

It's close to midnight and the neighbours are singing drunken Christmas Carols; time to go.

Cutler can't shake this terrible feeling of emptiness. Nothing matters. Where does he go from that? He shrugs on his duffel-coat in preparation for the night-time cold and asks Hal what to do about the bodies. He's exhausted and the thought of dragging them to the car dispirits him further.

Hal gives him a look. Taking a packet of cigarettes from his trench-coat pocket, he lights one and drops it on the carpet. Seconds tick by before it begins to smoke.

"House fire," says Hal. "Saves on paperwork. Really, must I do everything for you?"

*#*#*

Something changes that night. It's not significant at first. But Cutler will look back on this in years to come and remember it as the first major turning point in his path to self-damnation.

*#*#*

He wakes with a hangover.

Cutler is still disappointed that he can have one. Some things never change.

The New Year is rung in with three days of continuous partying and he can't remember much about it now. He thinks he might've embarrassed himself playing pin the tail on the donkey with Dennis - using the old lady who lives next door for target practice. _Lived_. Oh, there's going to be a lot of tiresome paperwork involved on that one. Something about Fergus and a pink tutu. He groans. Best not to think about it.

He dresses slowly and joins Hal for breakfast in the dining room: Earl Grey and a bowl of porridge this morning. Not too heavy, and Cutler is thankful for this small kindness, eats with a trembling hand until the bowl is clean. Hal is entirely too sober and looks every bit as refreshed as Cutler feels ill. Damn the recovery power of the Old Ones.

"You're not going to work today," Hal informs him, folding his newspaper. "Take some personal leave. Your presence is required here."

"What?" says Cutler, feeling ambushed. "But I've got work, Hal."

"You can catch up tomorrow." Hal tilts his head to the side, grinning. Smug bastard. "I'm not satisfied with your progress in French and we're going to run through your lessons again."

"Not today. I'm sorry, I don't have the time."

"You always find time for me."

"This is different."

"How so?"

"I can't just drop everything for you."

"I think you'll find you can."

The nerve of the man. Cutler is incredulous. "I have a _case_, Hal. There's a pile of bodies in the cellar that need to disappear. Louis is probably looking at a rape charge. _Again_. Do I have to remind you what happened last night? I thought you recruited me to exonerate your lackeys when they slip up. Isn't that what I'm here for?"

Hal smiles cryptically. "Among other things."

"But - "

"No buts," says Hal, sweeping aside his concerns with a little flourish of the hand. "I expect to see you in the library in exactly seven minutes."

And then he's gone.

For a split second, Cutler contemplates rebellion - but he just doesn't have the strength for it.

With a long-suffering sigh, he puts down his briefcase and follows Hal out the door.

*#*#*

Six months pass in an orgy of blood, booze, and gambling.

It's not what he wants. He's not happy. But he lets himself be caught in the tide of Hal's direction and manages to fabricate something resembling a life. The days Cutler spends at work, and if his co-workers notice a change in him they don't bring it up. The nights, of course, belong to Hal. He teaches Cutler to live with the moral indifference of a god - or maybe just a monster.

"Their lives revolve around ours," Hal explains of humans. "We are the eternal sun and they like so much debris encircling our light. Let them seduce themselves into believing they have control. Let them come to you, knowing all the while they're trapped in the relentless pull of your gravity. Every now and then, you'll reach out to drawn one in and they will burn before your might."

Such passion is the one thing Cutler is incapable of learning. He's sick with longing and thinks only of the next kill, the next relief from this crippling addiction. The days are counted by the breadcrumb trail of bodies he leaves behind.

Nights pass in the study of language, a particular favourite of Hal's, and Cutler listens as he reads aloud the works of Rumi and Johann Goethe, meditating on their theories of life, death, and everything in-between. Cutler freely admits his interest. The miniature of detail has always fascinated him. Solicitor's mind. Hal explains with great solemnity that vampires stand apart from the natural order of things: no door awaits them when they die. The evolution of the soul through reincarnation is a thing lost to them. This in particular seems to obsess Hal, and Cutler begins to wonder if this is the real reason behind his recruitment. Perhaps Hal is lonely, too.

They can't lay claim to friendship - for Hal is above such narrow concepts - but it's more than purely functional. Cutler doesn't think he's wrong in sensing that Hal needs him too. Theirs is a relationship parasitic in its depravity; his apathy is the perfect compliment to Hal's dominance. Slowly but surely, the thin veneer of Nick Cutler is being torn down and a new man forged from the raw ingredients inside. But it's the nature of Hal's need that confounds him so; what exactly does he want from Cutler?

Fergus objects to the amount of time they're spending together. "Just remember, dick face. His _Lordship_ gets bored easy."

Is it jealousy? Cutler doesn't care. If Fergus has spent a hundred years in Hal's service and risen no further in his esteem than 'chief thug' that's his problem. Indeed, Hal seems to have a bad habit for surrounding himself with imbecilic obedience. Cuter is probably the only one in his entourage who can successfully distinguish between the Artful Dodger and a Jammy Dodger. Of course, that's not say Hal actually appreciates his company; most of time, he acts as if teaching Cutler is the very worst kind of burden.

There are so many layers to the man and he wonders if he'll ever uncover them all.

In July, 1951, eleven months after Cutler's recruitment, Hal rewards his inner circle with a week-long trip to Blackpool. They get the best rooms in the Imperial Hotel, order breakfast-in-bed every morning on Hal's tab, and if they help themselves to more than just Eggs Benedict when the attendant arrives it's a forgivable lapse in decorum.

Hal remains strangely distant through the whole affair, adopting an air of parental supervision over them; he sits on the beach in woollen sweater and cotton pants, reading Dostoyevsky's _Notes from Underground_ from his deck chair while Fergus, Dennis, and Louis take to the water. In the evenings, while his boys are losing a small fortune in the arcades, Hal enjoys a quiet cigar in the hotel bar. Cutler tags along with him when he perceives Hal's mood to be amenable, relishing the opportunity to talk with him in such an informal setting.

He fancies himself closer to scratching the surface of what makes this creature tick. _You're destined for great things_, Hal told him once. On the night they first met. The night Cutler died. Surely, if he can unlock the secret of Hal's strength this new world will unfold its tender underbelly and he can finally leave his mark upon it. History makers, that's what they are. He's still waiting for those opportunities to appear.

"Do you know how to dance?" Hal asks him one evening.

"I can hold my own," Cutler answers, unsure as to where this is leading. Hal is unpredictable.

"There's a ball at the Winter Gardens tonight. You're going. Wear something in a pale blue. Brings out your eyes." He cups Cutler by the chin, rubs his finger in the stubble there. The touch is uncomfortably intimate and Cutler veers away from it. "Such lovely eyes."

"I can dress myself, Hal. I'm not a child."

"Then stop acting like one. You haven't stopped sulking since we arrived."

It's an order to have fun and, as always, Cutler gives in to Hal's desire.

From the sidelines - and oh how he loathes to be trapped there still - Cutler watches Hal so effortlessly charm the ladies into dancing. He steals the most attractive filly right off her boyfriend's arm and sweet talks them both into acquiescence: _just one dance, my good fellow; I'll bring her back in one piece_. She'll never know how lucky she is to escape. For Hal is the perfect gentleman that night, gliding across the dance floor with all the grace and dignity that Cutler hasn't managed to replicate. He admires that Hal that confidence. Envies him for it. He wishes they were alone.

Cutler dances too and wishes he hadn't. He's nimble on his feet but he can't match Hal's elegance, and the clutch of so many greasy human hands repulses him.

Finally, the evening ends when Hal reaches the limits of his patience. Attention is milk and honey to him, but his Lordship prefers the intimacy of the one-on-one approach. Though he could kill everyone in the room if he cared to, sometimes the flavour of denial can be just as tasty.

Hal's new fan club is disappointment and begs his stay.

"My sincerest apologies, ladies," he says, bowing low to the ground. "But my friend and I have an early start in the morning."

They don't, and Cutler enjoys the lie of it.

And when Hal places a guiding hand on the small of his back, escorting him from the dance floor, Cutler feels like he's bested the competition. He relaxes for the first time.

The holiday ends on Sunday evening. Fergus treats them to a bawdy show in a little back street pub and Cutler watches, laughing, as two men dressed in women's clothing impersonate Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. It's all good nonsense, really, but Hal is so offended that he goes backstage and snaps the performers' necks.

"Tacky," he says, and smiles impishly.

"Don't tell me," Cutler drawls. "You'd prefer a _biting_ bit of satire."

Hal's eyes widen in something resembling surprise. "You know me too well."

He throws an arm around his neck and Cutler enjoys the camaraderie of it. At times like these, he can almost convince himself that it's more than just a passing distraction.

That he actually matters.

Fergus drives them home. Hal sits beside him in the passenger seat, while Cutler is stuck in the back with Dennis and Louis, both of them passed out and snoring. It deflates his mood and he slumps down, staring out the window into the night-time oblivion.

"Don't sulk," Hal chides him. "I tell you what, when we get back, I'll take you to the opening of that new film at the Gaumont. What was it called, Fergus?"

"A Streetcar Named Desire, my Lord?"

"Yes, that's it. How does that sound?"

Patronising. "Great," says Cutler.

"And did we enjoy our time away?"

He's looking at Cutler in the rear-view mirror, expression treacherous. The darkness compresses the space between them and it feels like Hal is bearing down on him.

"It was good," says Cutler honestly. "Good to get away. We should do it more often."

"Not eager to return home?"

Disturbing, the way Hal says it. _Like he can see right through me_, thinks Cutler.

"It's not that. I'd just like to see more of the world is all. You must be pretty well-travelled yourself."

"The world is overrated." Flash of white teeth in the mirror. "But if you'd prefer a change of scenery I'm sure that can be arranged. In fact, I do believe I heard tell of a position opening in Cardiff for a senior duty solicitor. What do you think, hm? Perhaps I could pull a few strings and have you transferred."

Cutler shifts in his seat. "On my own?"

"Do you need someone to hold your hand?"

Too sweet. Spoken with the thinness of a razor blade. Cutler scrambles to save the conversation.

"I just meant - I mean, that's not quite what I had in mind - I thought - "

And then Hal is laughing, his little _rat-a-tat _chuckle that Cutler hates. "You know," he muses. "I do believe Mister Cutler is growing quite fond of me."

When Fergus joins in on the laughter it's an entirely new level of humiliation.

Another layer scratched. Lesson learned.

The holiday is over.

*#*#*

**CHAPTER TWO**

There's a secretary at work who fancies him.

Every morning, she leans across his desk, all scented perfume and heaving bosom, and slides the morning newspaper across his desk with a cup of tea and winsome smile. Cutler refuses to meet the invitation in her eyes and stares at her neck until she leaves. The cup of tea, so cheerfully delivered, cools to room temperature on his desk.

They all know he's a widower. Poor Nick Cutler, whose missus fell prey to the Gentleman Executioner, that's what his colleagues whisper behind his back. At lunch, they gather around the wireless and listen with almost salacious interest as the newscaster reads aloud the morning headlines: _serial killer on the loose in London, police baffled_. Rachel is declared to be among the victims, body undiscovered. Hal came up with the idea. It frees Cutler from suspicion and allows for a degree of laxity when things go wrong in the future. If Hal's boys get peckish and decide to up their weekly quota there's already a handy cover story in place.

Indeed, Hal can be very indulgent where his _boys_ are concerned. He dotes on them like pets. Once, Cutler dares to inquire as to the lack of women in Hal's entourage. Is there a particular reason for it?

"Too needy," Hal drawls. Shades of irony there.

Some times, he thinks Hal is positively misogynistic.

Of course, it's not difficult to see why. Some times, when Cutler's secretary greets him in the office - Sandra is her name, pale skinned and red haired - she reaches out to straighten his tie and Cutler thinks about smashing her face into the wall. Her presence is cloying and seems to linger on his skin like so much dirt. The need to erase it, wash away the human stench in blood and pain, is almost irresistible. The thought unsettles him. It excites him.

"Oh, they'll do that," Hal tells him. "Push your buttons, so to speak. I suppose that's the terrible irony of it all. We simply can't live without them. You see, humanity has no need of us: if we disappeared tomorrow no one would mourn our loss. We have so much to offer this world, yet we're forced by necessity to surrender it to them."

"The meek shall inherit the earth," says Cutler.

Such dependence sickens him. Deification isn't supposed to feel this empty. Every day, he listens during tea break while his colleagues prattle on about the latest instalment of _Come Dancing _and what they had for dinner the night before. _Kill you all_, he thinks. _Drain the pettiness right out of you_. They have no idea. To them, Nick Cutler is still the same pasty-faced little sad arse he's always been, moping in the corner with his cup of Earl Grey and salmon paste sandwiches. He shouldn't be so insignificant.

Eventually, Sandra gets fed up being ignored and openly propositions him. Dinner and a show, she purrs. Got to move on some day. Rachel would understand.

He slaps her and it feels so good. The struggle to pin her even better. She screams, of course, but it's muffled beneath Cutler's hand. No getting away, my dear. He places an arm around her throat and holds it there until she asphyxiates. But he doesn't kill her.

As she falls limp, a delicious thought runs through his mind.

It makes him laugh. He giggles with the absurdity of it, fancies himself a bit mad.

Sandra is a dead weight on his shoulders as he sneaks her out the fire escape to his car. The thrill of discovery has him giggling afresh. But no one sees him. Into the boot she goes; and with his tie Cutler binds her mouth. Stupid bitch doesn't even wake up.

The drive home is given over to frantic planning. He thinks of what he can do with her and the possibilities are endless. Now this is power - the freedom to create and destroy with such indifference. It's exactly what he needs.

Cutler calculates that Hal and his boys won't return from their day at the races until six o'clock at the earliest. The townhouse is blissfully empty when he arrives, dragging Sandra from the garage and through the halls to the master bedroom. Carefully, he strips her naked and removes the gag from her pretty mouth - mustn't smudge the lipstick - and checks her face for bruises. Thankfully, he hasn't struck her hard. By the time Sandra finally wakes, Cutler already has her handcuffed to Hal's bed.

"Struggle if you like," he tells her. "His Lordship says it tenderises the meat."

She screams and Cutler is delighted.

Between her breasts, he slips a written note. It says one word and a thousand different things: _Cutler_.

*#*#*

Hal doesn't bring it up. Not in so many words. His Lordship isn't the curious sort and is probably used to people trying to impress him. But this is different.

Once the adrenaline fades, Cutler descends into anxious misgiving and locks himself away in his bedroom. He agonises over Hal's reaction. He can imagine it now: "I can get my own fucking food," Hal will say; maybe a limb would be broken.

Cutler prays he'll understand the significance of the gesture.

A week later, he finds a small velvet-lined box on his desk at work. Inside is a gold Rolex watch, the finest money can buy. Attached is a small note.

In calligraphic letters, it reads: _Hal_.

*#*#*

The first werewolf arrives from Bradford in September. He's a strapping young thing, dark skin almost purple and hair knotted in such a way that it reminds Cutler of tiny cabbages. Throughout the many degradations Hal inflicts on him, the dog maintains a quiet sort of dignity and Cutler is almost impressed. He doesn't let it show. On the full moon, Hal orders a large cage be rigged up in an abandoned warehouse and from all over the southeast vampires converge on the Isle of Dogs to watch the show.

"Is that supposed to be ironic?" Cutler wonders, referring to the name.

"Fergus chose the location," says Hal with an elegant shrug.

"Figures."

"Now, now. Let's not devolve into childish bickering. This is a special treat, Mister Cutler. We've hunted these dogs almost to the point of extinction. Care to place a wager?"

"Who's going to fight him?"

Hal smiles.

It takes a moment to sink in, and then Cutler's stomach bottoms out. "You can't be serious? I mean, I can't - I thought - " _You need me_, he thinks.

Hal's expression is serene.

"Dennis," he says, and when the bearded vampire steps up behind Cutler a current of despair runs through him. _Not me_. He's surprised that the feeling of rejection stings more than the prospect of death frightens. But then Hal continues: "Dennis, I really am tired of you stealing all the Jammy Dodgers."

Cutler doesn't understand at first. It's not until Fergus barks a laugh and starts manhandling Dennis into the cage that he unclenches long enough to react.

"But he was your friend," says Cutler, appalled.

Hal waves the concern away. "Call it an early spring cleaning."

The atmosphere in the warehouse turns boisterous as full moon approaches. Fifty, perhaps a hundred, vampires hoot and holler as they pack in around the cage. Poor Dennis can't even pray for a quick death without singing his tongue. Fergus locks him inside the cage on one end while Louis escorts their prisoner in from the other. A large chair is arranged for Hal in the centre of the crowd and he sits, drinking directly from a bottle of whiskey, as the dog begins its transformation.

"Five hundred pounds says Dennis lasts more than twenty minutes."

"That's a lot of money, my Lord," replies Fergus. He shrugs. "What the hell."

Cutler divides his time between the two spectacles, for he's uncertain as to which is more compelling. Hal is slightly drunk, a rare occurrence for him, jacket and tie lying discarded over the arm of his chair. His crisp linen shirt is unbuttoned to the collar. Sweat moistens the skin there. His lips are wetted from the alcohol and he sits with legs spread obscenely wide, as if inviting the world to kneel between them. Cutler traces the seam of Hal's trouser leg to where it meets the tented groin. Looks away.

Inside the cage, the prisoner collapses to the floor a man and rises a werewolf. Spectacular it is, standing eight foot tall on its hind legs with grey fur and a mouth of yellowed canines. The enthusiastic roar of the crowd drowns out the screams of metamorphosis; and when it opens its jaws it does so with an almighty howl.

Dennis shakes and quivers in the corner.

"My Lord," he mouths.

"You know," says Hal. "I really do love Jammy Dodgers."

Cutler understands then what's about to happen. He shakes his head. Of course.

The match has been rigged.

For three days leading up to the full moon, Hal ordered the dog be force-fed a diet of steak and potatoes and it makes a gruesome sense now. For it surely isn't hungry and decides to play with Dennis a little first, tossing him around the cage like an old shoe. Cutler tries to muster up some sympathy, but he can't escape the relief that it's not him in there. He turns away from the wretched mob.

Hal tuts his disapproval. "Sit," he orders, motioning to the arm of his chair. It's really more of a throne. "Are we feeling insecure?"

He places an arm around Cutler's waist and draws him in tight. Paternal that gesture, like sitting on his father's knee. Lovely to be cradled in such a way. It breaks something inside him, a little spillage of emotion beneath his ribcage. Perhaps he's finally going insane.

Hal is sweaty and his breath reeks of alcohol with a trace of human blood. Eyes glassy with intoxication, he hiccups a little and smiles lopsidedly as he looks up at Cutler. My god, the man really is drunk. Hal laughs at Cutler's astonished reaction and it's almost painful to observe him like this, knowing the icy detachment he'll return to in the morning. Cutler aches to hold onto this moment - this tenderness - and realises with a start that this is desire. He desires exactly this. Hal's approval, that's his secret yearning. He's sinking beneath the weight of this man's attention and prays the force of it will crush him. Wants the pain of it. Wants to push his hand inside Hal's shirt, flat against the smoothness of his chest, and -

"You're a monster," Cutler marvels. "You don't give a shit about anything, do you?"

If the tone is disgusted, Cutler won't acknowledge the true cause of it.

Hal laughs again and it wrinkles his whole face. He reaches up with a trembling hand, pushes his fingers through Cutler's hair and cups the back of his neck. No resisting him.

"If that were true," Hal slurs. "You wouldn't be sitting here right now."

He licks the space beneath Cutler's ear, disgustingly wet, and Cutler's whole body weakens.

It takes a long time for Dennis to die.

They don't notice.

*#*#*

"How old are you?" Cutler asks.

"Old enough," says Hal. "That even God can't remember my real name."

*#*#*

He returns to Rachel's grave on Remembrance Day.

The irony isn't lost on him, but it is their wedding anniversary after all - the gift of flowers, if memory serves right. Four years stand between Cutler and the memory of it, when she looked in his eyes and declared herself bound unto death his wife.

The guilt torments him still.

Rachel was always the crutch supporting him, then in life and now in death, and it was that dependence Hal aimed to sever. All for nothing. Cutler should've told her to run the first night he came home and smelled the stale blood between her legs.

Sweet Rachel. He remembers their first meeting and scorns at the naivety of it. She the daughter of the university principal. He the smitten scholar. She asks to sit next to him in the dinner hall and he can't even look at her. Such desire he feels. He proposes six weeks later, but he can't afford an engagement ring and promises to make up for it with the wedding. She says yes and there's nothing but happiness in him. Rachel's love is the recognition he's always craved; everything he achieves from thereon is for her. He pawns his car to pay for matching wedding bands, one of which he still wears while the other lays several feet beneath the ground he now stands on.

And to feel this same longing directed at Hal pains him in a way Cutler thought stolen from him. His weakness knows no bounds. He hungers for the comfort that only Hal's domination can provide. It's deeper, less visceral, than what he feels for the blood. Or maybe it's the same and he only imagines the difference. Hal's words echo through the tunnel of his madness. _Don't pretend there's any deeper meaning. Open your eyes_.

In the end, it always comes back to Hal.

Truly, this is the greatest indignity of all.

Cutler twists the ring on his finger, but doesn't take it off. Not ready. Not yet.

He sits beneath the sycamore tree until the sun reaches crescendo in its path across the sky. Watches the play of light through the empty branches. And that's how Hal finds him, sitting with his back to the withered trunk.

He hears the car before he sees it. Recognises the paintwork immediately and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the tragedy of the whole thing. Of course Hal knows to find him here. The man can read him like a book - intuits exactly where he'll be and probably enjoys the taste of disappointment. Failure has never been so souring.

The Rolls-Royce rambles impatiently up the dirt track and parks amongst the heather and bramble. The engine snuffs out with a certain finality.

Hal is smoking when he steps out the car. He doesn't look displeased, but the cigarette is a definite warning sign. He's dressed in his gangster best, trench-coat and fedora, spats gleaming in the midday sun. Resting gently against the bonnet, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. _Can't get one over on me, child_. Cutler at least has the good grace to stand up and try to affect contrition. Braces for the oncoming storm.

And so they stand there, silently appraising each other, until Hal breaks the standoff.

"You've made a grave mistake coming here." It's a cheap shot and one that manages to injure. Hal gestures with his cigarette. "You buried her on the other side of the tree."

And then he's laughing.

He sucks up Cutler's pain and spits it back in his face. It's all just a game to him. Like the child who traps the spider in a cup and watches it suffocate so Hal laughs at him now.

Anger seizes him.

"Fuck you," says Cutler. The scream builds in his chest. "Fuck you!"

He can't believe the callousness of this creature. Fury shrinks his awareness and suddenly there's nothing but Hal and his smug face. _Fucking kill you_.

He surges forward, balls his hand into a fist, and makes as it to strike. But there's no reaction from Hal. His indifference is the cruellest of shields. Oh, no, that just won't do at all. Not this time. And so Cutler slams his hand, palm open at the last minute, on the roof of the car; it misses Hal's face by the fraction of an inch and probably saves Cutler's life.

"Fuck _me_."

If he can't sever the gangrenous limb of Hal's influence then he'll let the rot consume him whole. He just wants it over. Fucking - _do it_. Down in the filth together.

Hal doesn't respond immediately. Does nothing surprise him?

He takes a drag on his cigarette. "A little dramatic." Exhales smoke. "Don't you think?"

"Fuck me."

Cutler's voice is steady even while his body withers beneath the tension. _Need this_, he thinks. _Wanted you for so long._ It's been gestating since the night Hal murdered him and the realisation gives birth to his conviction. _Finish the job you started_. He searches Hal's face for some sliver of mercy. He fears the denial above all else.

Finally, he can take no more.

"Please," Cutler begs.

Hal looks at him like he's the most disgusting thing he's ever seen.

He shoves Cutler away.

"Face down." Lifts his shirt. Unfastens the belt buckle. "Over the bonnet."

Cutler can't suppress the frisson of excitement that runs through him. _My God, he's really going to do it_. He moves to the front of the car and hesitates there, looking to Hal for guidance and mentally contracting with his own inadequacy. He has no idea what the hell he's doing. Something ugly passes over Hal's face - doubts will not be tolerated - and a strong hand grips him by the hair and slams Cutler down across the bonnet. The force of it knocks the wind from him, but the roughness is very welcome.

Delicious weight as Hal pins him from behind. "All the same," Hal snarls, and there's a rustle of clothing as his trousers drop. "Just like the rest, aren't you? Is this what you want, Cutler? Hm? Answer me? You want my cock up your worthless fucking arse?"

"_Yes_," says Cutler. The confession empties him from in a hiss of pleasure.

And then Hal's nudging his legs apart, drawing up his hips in alignment for what's to come and Cutler is more than happy to be taken like this, all spread out and filthy. _Yes, give it to me, want it_. He moans as his waistband is pulled down in one impatient tug. Hands on his arse, parting him open, and then he feels it: the first nudge, burning hot and unyielding as Hal positions him like a dog submitting to its master.

"Fuck you?" Hal laughs, slapping Cutler's arse so hard it brings tears to his eyes. "I already have." He slams his way home and it's blunt and thick and full of contempt. Exquisite torture. Through clenched teeth, Hal hisses: "Yessss. Now this is what it's all about. Come on, Cutler. Wriggle for me. Show me how much you want it."

"Please." A breathless scream, barely there and gone.

"Yes, that's it," says Hal approvingly. "I do so love to hear them beg."

Of course they do. How could they not? By the time Hal's finished, they always learn to enjoy the pain - and Cutler breaks so easily beneath his touch.

Hal fucks into him with short, stabbing thrusts, and Cutler soaks up that enormous strength. A hand presses down on the back of his neck: _no backing out, little man_. Hal's cock is intolerably dry, and Cutler feels every thrust like a punch to the gut. That pain is everything he could hope for and he groans and writhes his approval, rises to meet each stroke and greedily takes what Hal is offering.

"Come on, Cutler," Hal laughs. "Ride me. Do it. Fuck yourself on my cock."

It doesn't last long. Hal's balls slap roughly against his buttocks, repeatedly until the sound becomes a steady clap. He keeps a hand braced on Cutler's hip, giving the flesh there deep, squeezing pinches as he pounds his way to climax; those fingernails tear vertical lines in his skin. Cutler is sick with arousal. He bucks against the bonnet, cock straining, but edges away from his peak. Everything is Hal. _Do it. Fuck me. Give it to me. I need it._

And when Hal comes, balls deep and roaring obscenities, Cutler feels the greasy rush of warmth inside. It flows into him and Cutler clenches victoriously around Hal's cock. He's got what he wanted.

"You fucking _whore_," Hal grounds out, and he says it like a revelation. Grunts and moans his satisfaction. One command and the levee is broken: "Come."

Cutler does.

He reaches down and that's enough, flesh and warmth around his cock, and his world narrows to what's between his legs. He becomes his release. Hal pumps into him from behind what Cutler spews forth in front and they rut like animals until they're spent.

Hal falls on top of him. He claws at the scruff of Cutler's collar. Places a hand on his cheek and pushes his face to the side. Then arrives a different sort of pain, sudden but not unwelcome, as Hal bites down and tears open his jugular. It's nothing less than a frenzied attack. Cutler screams and thrashes but there's no stopping this rape. He empties his worth into Hal and quickly delights in the ruthless suckle of lips on his neck. Down Hal drinks him in great, greedy gulps, and if this is how Cutler dies it wouldn't be so bad. The sudden rush of delirium as he weakens prolongs his orgasm. Ah, now this is the heaven Hal promised him. May it never end.

Eventually, Hal pulls off and tosses him away like so much rubbish. Stands there fastening his trousers as Cutler slumps to the ground.

"Was it everything you hoped for?" he sneers, and Cutler marvels at the sight of him.

He's flushed with Cutler's blood, face unnaturally plumped up and angrily reddened. The veins in his neck protrude in a tapestry of purple lines. Monstrous. Hal's belly - straining against his linen shirt with new fullness - makes a sickening gurgle as he bends down to zip his fly, struggling to hold within its stolen prize. Cutler thrills to think of his blood digesting in there. It's a violation so intimate that he feels himself hardening all over again.

Hal Yorke doesn't kill. He _consumes_.

When the afterglow subsides, Cutler is surprised by his lack of remorse. He doesn't know what it means. Doesn't know what Hal will to do with now. But he feels used in the best away possible and, for the first time in recent memory, he stands confronted by his own weakness and isn't repulsed by it. He thinks it magnificent.

Hal leaves him there on the ground. Sliding behind the wheel of the Rolls-Royce, he reignites the engine and Cutler almost laughs at the clear dismissal. How very like Hal. Can vampires die from lack of blood? But then Hal throws open the passenger door and, with a simple command to "Get in", makes another choice that much easier. Cutler is along for the ride, whether he likes it or not.

"What about mine?" he asks once he's crawled in beside Hal.

"What about your what?" Hal snaps.

"My car. It's still parked."

"We'll have Fergus pick it up later."

_We_, thinks Cutler.

He likes the sound of that.

*#*#*

Two days later, they're playing poker in the poolroom with Hal's lackeys. Cutler has a run of good luck and manages to win the first two rounds.

"No sore losers, gentlemen," he says, scooping his winnings into an empty ashtray. "Better luck next time and all that."

Fergus is peeved. "What the fuck's gotten into you?"

Appropriately phrased, and Hal chuckles as he drains his glass. Cutler watches the play of muscles as he swallows and feels suddenly thirsty himself.

"Maybe," says Cutler, leaning into Fergus' personal space. "I'm just sick of looking at that burst boot you call a face."

Fergus chokes on his own indignation and Cutler takes a moment to enjoy it. How lovely to be the one who inflicts for a change. Turning to Hal for support, Fergus silently begs permission to retaliate.

But Hal shrugs. "He has a point."

He stares at Cutler over the rim of his glass and Cutler doesn't look away.

*#*#*

They don't touch again for three weeks. It's the longest Cutler can hold out before the foundations of his confidence dissolve away to nothing. Hal expects him to come crawling on hands and knees, begging for it, and Cutler swears he's a worse addiction than the blood. That he can have whenever he wants, but with Hal it's a very different set of rules: access will be granted when his Lordship is good and ready.

He feels certain that Hal is taunting him. The teasing lift of an eyebrow over croissants at breakfast, blowing smoke in Cutler's face when he's trying to study, every gesture screams the same message: _I've got you pegged now. I know where you live_. It's just one more collar to leash him with. He's daring Cutler to reach out and free himself and, occasionally, he almost rises to this perceived challenge. Holds eye contact with Hal at dinner until finally he breaks and looks away. A new intimacy passes between them and Cutler feels alive again. His heart beats to the drum of this new hunger.

Finally, he has enough. Damn Hal for doing this to him. Lying in bed at night, shaking with the need of it, Cutler knows he'll give in. So he does. The decision is liberating.

He chooses his moment carefully.

Hal has spent half the evening preparing for a policemen's charity dinner, choosing his clothes with fastidious care, and allowing Fergus to give him the closest shave a razor will allow. He defines handsome, hair gelled back until it matches the shine of his old-fashioned spats. Cutler waits until Hal is halfway down the stairs before making his move.

"You're not going out," he calls from the landing. "You're staying in with me."

He wishes he felt as brave as he sounds. Maggots gnaw his insides, and Cutler is unsteady on his feet as Hal turns to face him, eyebrows raised.

"Is that so?"

He hears what Hal doesn't say: _be certain, child_.

"I think we both know you're going to say yes," says Cutler.

"You sound awfully sure of yourself."

He really isn't.

"Maybe I've seduced myself into thinking I'm in control." He paraphrases Hal's words with a wobbly smile. It's supposed to be cocky, but it probably makes him look constipated with fear. "Why don't you come up here and put me in my place?"

Fergus glares daggers at his impertinence. "You little - "

"That will be all, Fergus."

"But my Lord - "

"You're dismissed."

Hal doesn't take his eyes off Cutler. Glimmer of approval.

As he leaves, Fergus makes a cutting gesture to his throat. Whatever's passed between them, Cutler knows this is the moment when all bridges are burned and he doesn't give a damn. Good riddance. The front door slams shut and Hal takes the stairs two at a time, ripping off his jacket.

They fuck right there on the landing. Hal pins him to the wall and drives in from behind, breathing filthy curses in Cutler's ear. He makes no objection when Cutler begins humping the varnished oak panelling until he comes a split-second after Hal's release. Always Hal. Always first. Hal drains him afterward, making a mess of his throat, and it's a rape Cutler is quickly learning to enjoy. He sags, but Hal keeps him upright and grips him by the hair with one hand while he holds the other over Cutler's slowing heartbeat.

He licks the shell of Cutler ear. "Do you love me?"

Hypnotic voice, crippling in its intensity. Cutler aches to hear it.

"No," he answers, and it's the truth. But he needs him. Hal is the lifeline and Cutler the drowning man. It's not love. It's so much more.

Resting his chin on Cutler's shoulder, Hal nuzzles the gash on his throat. Tickle of soft hair against his cheek. The gesture is almost sweet. "And if I want you love me?"

"I think it's a little late for that," Cutler whispers.

Dead things. Lost chances.

"Love is a distraction," says Hal, nipping his earlobe. He doesn't sound angry, but he's not pleased either. There's something missing. "I thought you liked distractions."

Cutler closes his eyes. "Not any more."

Hal releases him.

Flash of brilliant of white as Cutler goes dizzy from the blood-loss. Sleep drags him under, but Hal isn't finished with him yet.

He removes his belt and loops one end repeatedly around his hand, pulls the leather taut when he's done.

"On your knees," Hal orders. "Pants down."

So it's like that, then.

As always, Cutler is only too happy to oblige.

*#*#*

"Would you stop fidgeting? People are starting to look."

"Didn't think you cared about things like that."

"Indeed, I think I'm getting used to looking like a fool by association. Sit _down_."

"I'm sorry. It's just - I don't if it's the cold weather, but I'm hungry all the time."

"I think that's just you."

"It's like the blood isn't enough. Some times I want - I don't even know. More."

"Well, aren't you precious. Is there no end to your neediness?"

"I apologise, my Lord."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? Everyone else does."

"You're not everyone, _Cutler_."

" ... "

"Fucking hell, I can't take much more of this. This film is intolerably long-winded. To think I paid for box seats so we could watch this rubbish."

"Is there no end to your complaints, Hal?"

" ... "

"I think it's nice. Just being here. The two of us, I mean."

"I suppose the intimacy does have its advantages. Look, down there, I think you have an admirer. That young lady has been giving you glances since the curtain fell."

"I'm not interested."

"No, no. Take a look before you dismiss. Check the quality of the merchandise."

"Which one is she?"

"That one. In the third row, with the purple hat. Blonde hair. Red lipstick. Quite the little tart. What do you think?"

"She looks all right."

"Such enthusiasm. You said you were hungry."

"What about the film?"

"Fuck the film. Invite her up. Take her to the bathroom. See how far you can push before she objects. That's always good for a laugh."

"Will you be all right on your own?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just mean - the film's not even halfway through."

"I'm sure I can cope without your scintillating repartee for ten minutes. That's about the limit of your stamina, isn't it?"

"Maybe we can share."

" ... "

"I take the top and you take the bottom."

"Why, Cutler, I had no idea you possessed such a filthy mind."

"What do you say?"

"I say I like the way you think. Together, hm?"

"Together."

*#*#*

January 16, 1952.

They're leaving London tomorrow. Hal has grown tired of the capital with all its smoke and drama. On a whim, he decides to up and relocate their little enterprise to Cardiff; and of those under his command only Fergus and Cutler are selected to join him. At the leaving party, he passes control of London to another Old One called Griffin.

"To the Welsh," Hal toasts. "You can almost taste the inbreeding."

Fergus snorts into his glass. "A fresh start and new blood for the Gentleman Executioner, eh, my Lord?"

"Indeed. I fancy something in an AB negative. What do you think of my chances?"

"Anything's possible in _Wales_. Are you sure this isn't a punishment, my Lord?"

Cutler's not sure what to make of this change. He'll follow Hal to the ends of the earth and through all of hell besides if it means staying together. At least Cardiff is a smaller territory, which means less responsibility for Hal and fewer drains on his time. More for Cutler. He can't be upset about that.

On their last night, Hal ties him up in the master bedroom and paddles him like a naughty schoolboy. By the time he's finished, Cutler is wet and moaning for relief. Hours pass in torturous foreplay before it arrives and Cutler doesn't stay when it's over. He never stays. He can feel the exact moment when Hal guillotines his interest. No need for dismissal; he's gone before Hal lights the first post-coital cigarette.

Cutler determines he's still doing something wrong. There has to be a way to cut through Hal's reserve and feed on the passion smouldering below. It comes in fits and starts when Cutler provokes him, but surely he can find a way to keep it burning.

His sleep is fitful. The townhouse groans and creaks its emptiness, each sound amplified as the hunger over-sensitises him. He wants blood. Needs Hal. Away from his touch it's like he doesn't exist, Nick Cutler disappearing through the mouldy cracks of insignificance.

He runs to the toilet and voids the contents of his stomach.

For a while, Cutler crouches there with his head pressed to the porcelain rim. He rides out the seizure until he can breathe again. Time to put an end to this.

Before flushing, he looks down into the waste gathered there in the bowl: a mix of blood, champagne, and cake. What a fucking joke. He slips the wedding ring from his finger and drops it in. It flushes away with the rest.

One last sacrifice, that's what Hal demands. He'll settle for nothing less than everything Cutler can give and he just hopes it's enough. They can make history together, the two of them. Cutler will give him the world and the sun will rise and fall to the sighs of their passion. When it's over, and humanity lays broken at their feet, Hal will look upon him with pride and smile - and give him a statue - and maybe Brazil. Great things.

He returns to Hal's bedroom before dawn, when the shadows lengthen and the temperature drops below freezing. He finds the door unlocked - and maybe it always has been - and once inside Cutler slips off his nightshirt and briefs.

Hal is already awake when he reaches the bed.

Cutler stands naked in front of him. "No more distractions," he says.

Hal smiles - it's not the one he wants to see, not yet - and lifts the covers in silent invitation. Cutler opens to him completely. He gives himself over to the hunger and in its embrace discovers a sort of mastery over it. He becomes one with his hunger. And, sliding in against Hal's warmth, Cutler gathers to him the last tendril of his humanity and severs it gently away. He lets it die.

Hal feasts on his remains

*#*#*

Rachel doesn't get a proper burial. Neither does Cutler.

*#*#*


End file.
